


The Harsh Blows Dealt

by Ghostcat



Series: All Things Go [8]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Speculation, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Missing Scene, Self-Hatred, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Where was he? At a hotel in Los Angeles with his pygmy nemesis. Who was he? Logan Echolls.  Unfocused, exhausted, here and not here.</em> Logan’s stakeout at the Sunset Regent ends with the answer he least wanted. Veronica Mars is there to bring him home. </p><p>Missing scene from ‘Ruskie Business’. Part of the non-chronological All Things Go series, works as a one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harsh Blows Dealt

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for language and themes.
> 
> This story is set during the events of Season One’s "Ruskie Business". Canon speculation.
> 
> Part 8 of a longer series, All Things Go, based on a playlist of song prompts. "Winter" by Kristin Hersh is the prompt for this one and provides the title. Works as a one-shot.
> 
> I do not own Logan Echolls or Veronica Mars, they belong to Rob Thomas.
> 
> Thank you to:
> 
> The very best beta reader, blithers, for continually helping me turn these sow’s ears into really good knock-off purses.
> 
> [disdainfullady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfullady/pseuds/disdainfullady/works%E2%80%9D) for doing an extremely helpful and astute second beta read. I can no other answer make but thanks. And thanks, and ever thanks.
> 
> All remaining errors/weird stylistic choices are mine and mine alone.
> 
> This story is dedicated to Merah, for giving me a long-ago prompt that got sucked into the ATG vortex.
> 
> Beautiful graphics provided by [lilamadison11](http://www.lilamadison11.tumblr.com) with gifs courtesy of [nightlocktime](http://www.nightlocktime.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/5myXq6V)  
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/9tD1in9)  
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/eXAqMWo)  
>   
> 
> 
> * 

The sky was a clear, deep, dark blue; dotted with muted city-smothered stars. He followed the blinking lights of an airplane as it made its way up into the air, a rising diagonal, and wished he was on it. Headed somewhere, anywhere— far away from here, never landing, just flying endlessly through the sky, forever.

Someone set a drink next to him. “Mr. Echolls, compliments of the house.” Logan raised his hand in acknowledgement but didn't make eye contact.

The Sunset Regent had a lounge area that rose above the street, balcony style. The space was bordered with young trees in giant planters, and presided over by a wait staff operating like Kabuki stagehands, moving unobtrusively in the background in crisp black on black. He sat on an army green and rattan outdoor couch tucked in a far corner. An impressively private spot considering this was the sort of place where Z-listers came to be seen, not hidden. Wannabe moguls flaunting nubile starlets, hands moving up and down their tanned thighs as if they were exotic housecats, there to be admired and petted.

10:30 was early by Hollywood standards and the scene was nowhere near set. The quiet was soothing, the lighting dim. Add the flagrant serving of alcohol to wealthy, TMZ-featured children of movie stars to the mix and you had his new favorite place to have a dead mother meltdown. He gave it four stars.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw film cameras and stiffened. Various lighting crew-types entered through some doors on his left, carrying reflectors and rigs into a glassed-in event area. He watched their clumsy attempts warily and reached for his drink. The tumbler slid off the table and shattered on the slate floor, the chunky base of the glass and its shards transformed into a jagged crown, resting inside a mess of ice and liquid. In less than a minute, the Regent stagehands cleared everything, a new drink sitting where the other one had been. Logan picked up the glass with both hands this time and swallowed deep. Tremblingly, he brought the tumbler up to eye level and looked through it, swiveling himself slowly like this was a panoramic shot in some romantic epic: privacy fronds, nouveau riche assholes, junior agents, obvious cheaters, a blasé maybe-call girl sucking on a cherry, settling with finality on the distorted, wavy figure of a girl on a cell phone, her free hand pulling on the black beads of her necklace, stepping aside to let a paunchy gaffer past.

She’d saved the day, Veronica Mars, as per usual. When the front desk dickwad had tried to have security escort them from the lobby, she'd argued, with such heated conviction, that Logan registered the startling feeling of it, if not her words. The timbre of her voice went hard and hissed-whisper emphatic and the sound spurred him to snap to. If snapping to meant going from sobbing to near-catatonic remove. _This must be what being Duncan is like_ , he thought.

Everything was coos and yeses after her little dressing-down. They were invited to the outside lounge, served un-asked for drinks and there they remained for the past however-many-minutes while Veronica made phone calls. A gloved grip trudged past, oblivious to the hole in one of the sandbags he was carrying. The sand trail followed him, snake-like and thin, ephemeral evidence. Logan replicated the meandering pattern with his fingernail on the seat, marking the fabric.

His skin itched. He scratched at the crook of his arm with the backs of his fingers. Where was he? At a hotel in Los Angeles with his pygmy nemesis. Who was he? Logan Echolls. Unfocused, exhausted, here and not here.

“Hey,” she said.

He looked up at her, startled by her noiseless approach, and was blinded briefly by a blast of Klieg light directly behind the lines of her neck and shoulders, shadowing her features. For seconds she could've been anyone, all halo and hair, bright and yellow, blowing around wildly in the California winter night breeze. It had been so neat before, when she'd stood in front of him cancelling his mother's credit card. Now it looked mussed, finger-run, better somehow, more _her_. Princess Veronica gone dark. He averted his gaze, better not to engage, though when he shut his eyes, her slender outline was seared there. She sat down next to him, a woosh of air between them, and smoothed the skirt of her black dress. Why was she wearing a dress? Why black, which she never wore? Why today? Had she known? All along, had she known? Was she fucking with him? Sticking around to watch him break. He shook his head. Of course not. Veronica was many things, a Class A bitch for one, but she was no sadist. Never that.

“Logan. I need you to listen to me.”

The film lights being set up behind them were burning blue, deepening their effect and replicating the glow of Magic Hour. His mom told him a whopper once about what the term meant, how it was a time of even light, when nothing in the world could go wrong and everything was as it should be. A time of grace. The thoughts of her were fleeting, flashes of smiles and badly told jokes. His breath stalled and he stopped, just stopped breathing. He forgot the mechanics. Veronica put her arm around him again. It was warm, she was warm and he fell back into breathing, her breathing, her pattern, her. In and out. He needed Veronica Mars to breathe. The notion made him queasy.

She spoke, her voice soft in the way of hospitals, calibrated for the weak and wounded. “Someone is coming to get your car, they’ll drop it off at your house tomorrow. I’m going to drive you back in mine. I’m sorry but I need it. I have stuff to do in the morning… work.” She trailed off for a moment. “Logan?”

Normally, that gentle, placating tone was his trigger to smash the breakables. Pathetic displays of concern, the small scale acting of amateurs, as meaningless as they were offensive. He believed her though. That she cared. He needed to believe she did.

Logan nodded. Veronica inched closer. She smelled good, like lemon cookies, sugary and tart. Even at her most miniskirted-with-shitkicker-boots _tough_ , Veronica Mars always smelled sweet. Like home. He covered his face.

“Shhh,” she whispered and it took everything in him not to rest his head on her shoulder and start blubbering again. Her side pressed against his, knobby knees digging into him, a reminder. She patted him awkwardly. “Logan, I'm sorry but I need your car keys. I’m going to leave them with the parking attendants.”

He fished around his pant’s pocket and handed them to her. She stood up.

“Hey,” she said.

Veronica, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued but soft at the edges. She breathed in deep and he mirrored her, his chest seizing up again. Logan concentrated on her eyes, cast his line in them, waited.

“I might be another ten minutes. Stay… here. Okay?”

Logan nodded. She rifled through her bag, muttering under her breath. He could have sworn he heard her say _shit_ and he had to bury a demented sort of giggle at the idea because it was still a novelty, to hear Veronica say shit instead of shoot. Had he ever heard Veronica say fuck? Would he like to? He clasped his hands together tightly. _I'll take inappropriate responses to grief for $1000, Alex._ Veronica didn’t notice, she had her wallet in her hand, counting the bills inside and doing calculations in her head. He knew because until sophomore year they’d been in the same math class and she was the kind of person whose lips moved when numbers were involved. He misconstrued her habit then, assumed it meant struggle. But it didn’t. Veronica was good, Honor Roll good, of course she was.

She didn’t do that anymore, the counting. That girl he knew, that openness? Long since replaced by an over-it mask. She must be tired. Logan took out his wallet from his side pocket and handed it to her.

“I don’t--” she protested.

“Take it. Please,” he said, his throat raw, like it had been raked, every word another angry red scratch.

Logan found her eyes again, the spot where he could rest and Veronica’s breath hitched as if she bore the weight of him. Her tongue darted out, tiny and pink, wetting the center of her bottom lip, a wallet in each hand like a scale. She put them both in her purse and spoke, moving her hands towards the exit. “I’m just going to give the hotel parking guys your credit card information so that they can charge it on pick-up.”

“Yeah, got it.”

She stilled. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Veronica crouched down and for a second, Logan thought she was going to kiss his head, like he was a kid and he shrunk from her, a withered thing curling away from the sun. She stood up quickly, murmuring “Sorry,” and walked inside, brisk and purposeful.

Logan went back to staring at the sky. No clouds still.

It was obvious now he'd been as much of a crazy as that wackjob at the coffeeshop. His mother was dead. His mother jumped off a bridge. She hadn't survived the impact. Or the fall had knocked her unconscious and she'd drowned. Her body had floated out to sea to become part of everything and the fish would eat her eyes. No. He refused the image. _No body, no death._ His mom always said that. When he was eight she’d starred in a soap, Malibu Shores, and when her character, sweetheart ingenue Bethany Lewis, disappeared during a sailboat storm and was declared dead, she’d kept saying, _no body, no death_. Like cliches, dramatic tropes have their kernels of truth. _No body, no death_. Into the phone with her agent and into her G and T at night. She was right, the character _did_ return but with a different actress playing her. She’d died all the same.

Veronica returned, her own car keys in hand, held tight and close to her body like a weapon. She had such petite wrists, pale and breakable. She gave him his wallet back, he pocketed it.

“Come on," she murmured. "I’m parked nearby, only a couple of blocks away.”

She took his arm, feather-soft but also, certain. He stood up and her hand slid down to his fingers. He walked behind her, sluggish and unsure, through the hotel, then outside, watching her boots on the pavement, the swirl of tiny white polka dots on her dress, the pilled sleeves of her black cardigan. Why was she holding his hand? Oh yeah, he was _paying_ her. The Mars Investigations package must’ve come with the full Former Friends Experience attached. Or was it the Girlfriend Experience- the upgrade if the news was _really_ fucking bad. His grief-clouded mind was effectively distracted by the thought of lifting up Veronica’s dress, the smooth skin of her thigh under his fingers, of her, slapping him hard, with a nasty, well-deserved sting. Because she'd know what he wanted, sex and comfort but most importantly, punishment.

Veronica jarred him out of his thoughts by pulling him along with unexpected force, redirecting him. It was a transaction, all of this. Had to be. It wasn't that his legs were wobbly and useless or that the street seemed to pitch under his feet. It wasn't that the sharp blare of a car horn made him freeze, not go. It wasn't because they were friends.

This wasn’t the first time they’d held hands going from one place to another. Veronica was bossy, a hitter, elbow to the rib, poke to the chest, a shover. She liked to push and pull him around, hand in hand or hand on arm, lead. It was normal, her fingers in his, yanking him forward. Like normal should, like it used to.

She'd parked in a garage which was so unlike her, he hadn’t realized why they were walking down the ramp until they got in line in front of the dingy, windowed, half-white, half-gray kiosk. The Veronica he knew would circle around for as long as possible, trolling for free parking, sneakily distracting them from her real purpose by pretending to not know where she was. He and Lilly used to make fun of her, calling her a cheapskate, which was better than being _poor_ , right? That’s what he’d told himself at the time. Wasn’t until afterwards that he’d realized it probably stung all the same.

This lot was the closest one to the Regent that didn't belong to the place outright. Less expensive than the hotel's but definitely above her trailer park price point. She must've been in a hurry to find him. The implication of her choice hit him then, bringing a fresh wave of shame. When she went to pay, he rallied, reaching out first and passing the attendant his card. Best to circumvent her, cut her off before she argued. He got in her car without a word and hoped she'd keep the top up. She did. He angled his head towards the window and breathed on the glass until it fogged, using his finger to write an L in the condensation.

“I’m going to turn on the radio. I want to hear what the traffic is like,” she said, using that voice again.

His instinct was to reply “Okay, mom,” but the words died like insects in his throat. He closed his eyes instead, listening to the Morse code cadences of the traffic reporter. A three car pile-up with fatalities causing heavy gridlock on the Santa Ana. Death, death, death. Veronica said she was taking an alternate backstreets route, more to herself than Logan, and turned the car around. A few minutes passed, and the leather seat gave a low, dull squeak as Veronica moved beside him. A click-thud and “Sister Goldenhair” blared, Logan opened his eyes with a snap.

“No,” he muttered roughly and changed the radio to static with a flip of his wrist.

Veronica glanced at him with concern. “Yeah, of course.” She pressed more of the preset buttons and hit garbage with every single one. He leaned forward to take over for her and his fingers brushed against her forearm, both of them jumped a little.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, as if he’d done something. This was business. She was allowed to touch him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch her, _them were the rules_ , he thought mirthlessly. He bypassed the buttons, and used the grubby dial, eventually hitting a classical station playing a harpsichord piece. “This okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nice.” Veronica smiled to herself. “I’m surprised you like this. I don’t _think_ it contains any mentions of marijuana? Snuff maybe?” She tilted her head in that way of hers.

He smirked despite himself. “My taste is varied.”

“And frequently questionable.” They looked at each other for a second. She had a miniscule grin he yearned to smudge. Ronnie Mars with her bratty comebacks, a constant yap yap yap at his legs like the most adorably relentless Yorkie he’d never asked for. He had missed her, missed this, the fondness and irritation. He knew he was wrong to bask in its comfort. Nothing should feel good right now, nothing, so he turned towards the window, putting his forehead against the cool surface. With movement, the white line dashes dividing the streets blurred into one solid line, the streets widened into boulevards which transformed into freeways buzzing with passing streaks of lights: red ahead and white beside. Angels and devils. More whimsical nonsense courtesy of his mother. His dead mother. Who was gone, without-a-doubt gone.

Logan closed his eyes again. It only took a few minutes before the slow dread of the day and the finality of things made his body give. He fell asleep, head turned towards the headrest, arms wrapped around himself.

He dreamed he was flying. The squares and rectangles of houses and buildings and bright glitter of pools below getting smaller, more distant until all that blue was all that was visible, both above and underneath. He would disappear then, no body, no death, just a slow fade. Suspended perfectly, a fixed golden point.

"Hey," Veronica said, her voice cutting in from the left. Her fingers on his wrist and his hand, invisible but nonetheless present. Then he was falling, fast, speeding downwards, and rather than screaming, there was only silent, inchoate relief. This wasn’t dying, he _knew_ this, it was bigger than that, and he didn't fight it. She was with him and her presence meant he could stay. Not disappear, not vanish. Stay.

He woke up gently, blinking, something soft and dark wedged under his neck, fragrant, Veronica’s sweater. The car wasn’t moving and they were in his driveway. The top was down, so were the windows and she was talking on the phone, her hand in his, like he belonged to her.

“You’ll get him tomorrow, Pops. Mr. Neckbrace is bound to slip up.” She paused, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah. He fell asleep on the couch watching Caddyshack. I know! It's a crime. Now he’s sleeping in the car. I’ll wake him up in a second. No, he's not going either, he wants to quote unquote preserve his game and he doesn't think Corey Hart is going to help with that. Yes, point guard. Apparently, he _is_ the team. We should go sometime, watch him play.”

He listened to her with growing unease. Who the fuck was she talking about? Veronica Mars didn't have friends. She made sure of that. He'd been her friend and she'd thrown their friendship in his face. Tattling to Lilly, then walking around like nothing was wrong as everything fell apart. He hadn’t forgotten. He shouldn’t forget. Don't forget. His foggy agitation caused him start involuntarily, a full body reflex response, and she pulled her hand from his and switched the phone to it, tucking her hair behind her ear, her face otherwise unreadable.

“Aaaaand it looks like sleeping beauty is up.” She brought a finger up to her lips. He pursed his and fought against every perverse molecule in his body to not scream “Hey, Sheriff Mars. It's me!” Veronica checked her reflection in the mirror and told her dad a few more white lies, each one casual, easy. He remembered the last time he heard her lie to her father, and his lips quirked. Veronica trilled “'Night, Daddy! Good luck tomorrow, call me,” and snapped her phone shut.

She took a deep breath. “I tried to wake you up but you were out. I thought it best to let you sleep.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while since…” Logan trailed off into a yawn and stretched his arms overhead. “Thanks for the ride and uh,” he waved his hand around, “...everything.”

“Of course.” Veronica’s eyes were steady and kind and he wished he could scream at her and have her hold him at the same time. “Are you okay to be alone?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He steeled himself for a smart-mouthed retort but she had none. That alert gray blue gaze fixed on him and for a moment, he thought he knew what she was thinking. _Should I stay?_ Like she’d taken his face in her hands and whispered the question into his ear.

“No, I’ve got this.” He yawned again, and rubbed his eyes, turning to her impulsively. “Is your dad out of town tonight?”

She blinked once, voice flat and hard. “Why? Are you looking to leave a dead rat on my doorstep again?”

Logan frowned. “I never did that.”

Veronica raised her eyebrow.

“I didn’t,” Logan said indignantly, bringing his leg up. “A _rat_? Lacks subtlety don’t you think?”

“Oh, because flaming poop in a brown paper bag has that whiff of metaphoric elegance?”

He snickered. “That wasn’t me either. It _does_ have a certain je ne sais duh, must’ve been The Casablanci.”

Logan laughed, he couldn’t stop, it rushed out, helplessly. Veronica stared at his foot on the seat, he was jiggling it convulsively. Her expression was blank. His laughter dried up. “Sorry,” he mumbled, putting his hand on her arm and while there was a lightning flash of rigidity in the set of her shoulders at the contact, she relaxed almost instantly. She turned to him, her long neck held high with the same resolve on her face as the first time she tried sushi, wore a bikini or sized him up like he was worthless, and reached out, taking his hands in hers. The movement was so gentle, he had to inch away from it, and he did, his back pressed against the door, the window roller poking the knobs of his spine, but his hands remained in hers. Veronica murmured something which he missed, too slow, watching dumbly as her fingers hovered over the thin white scar at his wrist like a question. An old pet or dirt-biking or some stupid jackass-style prank, he didn’t remember any more. He tried to tell her, tried to say, _I don’t remember_.

“Is,” her eyes flicked up at the house, narrowing into something way too much like worry, “...is he home?”

He pulled his hands from hers. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m fine.”

She scooted towards him. “I could come back tomorrow.”

“Not necessary,” he snapped, turning forward. “Listen, I’ll uh… I’ll bring you your payment soon. You know I’m good for it.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled the somewhat damp sweater from behind his head, stuck in his shirt collar. His instinct was to throw it at her, old habits, instead he folded it and put it down in the space between them. “Sorry, I may have drooled on it. Send me the dry cleaning bill. Here,” he took out his wallet and tossed a couple of hundred dollar bills on top of the cardigan with a shaky flourish. “...buy yourself a new one.”

Veronica picked up the money on the seat, her jaw angled hard. She took the bills and folded them neatly on her lap. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Logan was enveloped suddenly, surprisingly, without warning, held tight in those wiry arms of hers. He released the air he’d been holding, the tension clenching his limbs, knotting up his chest, and shut his eyes to block out everything but _now_. He held onto her like she was the ballast keeping him from floating out of the car, up into the sky. She rubbed his neck, kneading the bones at his hairline, then let go, looking at the house, then the radio, the rearview mirror, anywhere but him. That was his cue.

He was too numb to jump out, he opened the car door and stood, not moving, his fingers resting near the lock, tapping. She didn’t start the car either.

“Veronica. You’re not going to that dance tomorrow, are you?”

Her smile was grimly sardonic. “And miss the bucket of blood? Pass. Why?”

He thought of telling her about Duncan and his crush, as extra payment for services rendered. She’d done him a solid, now it was his turn. Only he couldn’t and he didn’t know who he was protecting, DK or her. She blinked at him, her top teeth visible, her jaw slack. He had to go or he’d be staring at Veronica Mars as she breathed in and out, goosebumps on her arms, hands clutching the steering wheel, forever. The only thing he could think to do to break the stalemate was sliding back in the car and burying himself in her which made him feel like he had a black swarm in his skull. Dead mother, dead girlfriend, no problem. Veronica Mars would make it all better. He shook his head.

“No reason.”

Veronica tilted her chin and darted her eyes to the side. She breathed in sharply. “Right.”

He shut her car door gently and walked towards the house.

“Logan. I have to work but call me, if you need to.”

He spun around, his feet crunching the gravel on the turn. “I won’t.”

“Okay. But know that you can call me. If you need to.” She took off before he could respond.

The house was quiet, no sign of his dad. He checked his phone, a few voicemail messages from DK that he didn’t bother listening to and one missed call from Veronica from earlier in the night. He walked through the house in the dark, bumping into things, not caring about the noise, not caring about anything, a ghost. Walking, turning, left, right, left, until he hit the end of his bed shin-first and dove.

Logan dreamed not of his mother, but Veronica. She was suspended above him, like stars, her hair tickling his face. She kissed him and talked, soft and sure, with sugar sticky lips. He fingered the thin leather choker at her neck, watched the way her pulse jumped under her skin. More than lust, though there was that, there was calm, belonging. He wanted to stay somewhere in-between the two for as long as possible. Without the Kanes or the past year. No lost mothers. Or rumors of naked cell phone photos or the salty tang of clavicle and lime. No anger. No dead. Only her and him. Safe. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open like before in the car and the blonde of her eyebrows and eyelashes familiar in an aching way. When she spoke clearly enough for him to understand what she was saying, her words were a hair above a whisper. “So are you going to kiss me back?” He hesitated.

He woke up late in the day, almost evening. Logan pushed himself to standing with his eyes closed because he didn’t want to catch his mother sitting at the foot of his bed with kelp in her wet hair the way drowned women do in ghost stories. He went straight into the shower and came out almost an hour later, pruny, red-skinned and wrung out. His phone buzzed from the corner of his room, still in his pant’s pocket. Messages from DK. First text: _R U OK?_ , second text: _U C V? she come get u?_ , the third: _stuck in NH dance full crisis mode txt if u ok_ and a couple more, in additional nightmare text language variation. A dawn-sent message from Dick asking if he wanted to meet at Ohls Beach to surf. He checked his other pockets for his wallet, found it, along with the two hundreds he thought he’d given to Veronica. He laughed with a helpless stutter. She was too much. The surprise hug. She’d meant it though. He’d caught her eyes, he’d staked a claim there. It was true.

Veronica hadn’t called. Probably for the best. The more he thought about the day before, and her kindness, the more ashamed he got. The past year’s shitty behavior had snowballed and accumulated a near-crushing weight. Heavier than his ever-present rage, his dad’s knees on his chest pinning him down, or Lilly cheating because she thought she had to. He spent the last year hurting Veronica Mars and for what? Everything was exactly as it had been. Mr. Kane was fine, DK was a zombie, and his life was awful. The only difference was he had one less person. As much as he hoped she would, he couldn’t blame her for not calling. He’d enjoyed what he'd done. He knew it and so did she. He’d loved his anger too much.

He walked downstairs and froze when he saw his father, eating a yogurt at the kitchen counter. Logan waited for the fear to hit but no, nothing but a cold emptiness. His father’s sleeves were rolled up and his gold Rolex gleamed, catching light. He spooned the stuff into his mouth and worked his jaw as he ate, the deep creases on either side of his nose making him resemble a tanned ventriloquist dummy. A hinge where a mouth should be and lifeless, painted eyes. Eyes which looked up, right at him, looked down, then back up again, eyebrows raised in surprise. A practiced double take. Bravo. Oscar winner, Aaron Echolls.

“You’re up,” his father intoned. The man always longed for the stage. He never stopped talking about his voice and speech training which was oh so necessary for his lucrative career in make believe car crashes, shoot-outs, and ass kissing.

“You’re observant.” Logan noted his father’s flicker of a scowl with a cool detachment. Maybe his old man was right. Maybe he wanted to get hit. He did today. Maybe the blows would go right through him, maybe the welts would split open and sing. He waited.

His father rubbed his hands together, then cleared his throat, folding his newspaper as he did so. “I have some good news. Your sister is home. She knows things are painful right now and she wants to be here for us.”

Logan was silent at first, then he laughed. He laughed until he cried, actually cried, and when it finally petered out into plain old breathing, his father was gone. A dirty spoon on the counter, the paper folded open to the business pages. Exit, pursued by guilt.

A drink was needed. Fuck that. A drink was _required_.

He grabbed a Phillips head screwdriver, walked out to the front of the house and found his car parked in the driveway. The door was unlocked, his keys sitting in the passenger seat. He grabbed them. He didn’t want to know. Thank you, St. Veronica.

Twirling his keys in his hand with a well-practiced ease, Logan skipped his way over to the pool house, making a determined beeline towards the air vent. He obtained the liquor cabinet key, which then stuck a bit in the lock, but some delicate wrist action on his part jostled it open. _Voila!_ Surveying the glorious inventory, he tented his fingers, then wiggled them, selecting the Glenlivet with a florid grandeur. He thought about pouring the stuff into a cup but then, with a lackadaisical skip-step, took the entire bottle over to his poolside lounger because a) he just did not give a flying fuck and b) if he was very, very lucky, his old man would do him the honor of drowning him when he caught him.

The sun was setting, scattered clouds divvying up the rays into picture perfect columns of salmon-hued light. He took several long pulls from the bottle and the smooth wet flame licked his insides, his belly, his legs, and his chest. Soon enough he was cocooned in warmth. Betwixt and between.

His pocket buzzed. He answered his phone, expecting good ole Donut. “Yo.”

“Logan,” she said, and his heart went double time.

“Hey. What’s up?” He popped the p and took a swig, flicking a tiny, green bug off of his armrest.

“Hi. I’m working so I have to be quick.” Veronica’s voice was breathy and Logan heard her moving around, her footsteps on ceramic flooring, cabinets opening and closing, plates being stacked.

“Ah, work, work, work. Thanks for making time for me in your busy schedule.” He hiccuped. “‘Scuse me.”

She sighed.

Logan sobered slightly. “That sounded like sarcasm. Sorry. It was a legitimate statement. Thank you.”

“Have you been drinking, Logan?”

“Yes, Ve-ron-ica,” he sing-songed, “I’m halfway through a bottle of Daddy’s finest scotch.” He slipped into his best Carl Spackler, “So I got that going for me, which is nice.”

“Am I to assume there will be varmint huntin’ in your future?”

“Possibly. I outfinnesse myself daily.”

Veronica grunted noncommittally. “Well, sober up a little before playing with explosives.”

A strong breeze blew and the coral trees did a lengthy wind-sway. He thought he saw a bluebird flapping its wings, perched on a branch. Couldn’t be, they would have flown south by now.

“Hey, hey. Veronica. Why did you go to L.A. last night? Did DK ask you to?”

“No. I saw him at Caz’s party and he told me you were still camped out at the Regent.” She paused and he pictured her, standing in her cramped, dark apartment, Lilly’s star pendant between her fingers. “I’m the one that sent you there in the first place so… I felt responsible.”

“You felt responsible,” he echoed dully. “Was it Lilly?”

“What?”

He spoke with care, aiming for controlled clarity. “Do you feel like you _have to_ take care of your dead best friend’s ex? Do you feel an obligation? Hmm?”

“Can I go back to ignoring you? Is that still an option?” She was hedging, there were spaces in her answer.

“Come on. Tell me, Veronica. I'm the client. Full disclosure, right? Because uh... You hate me, remember?” His words had no heat or recrimination. He needed to know, he had to be sure, she had to say.

She sighed and it was such a frustrated sound. Logan giggled stupidly and it was only somewhat alcohol-related. Her hesitation meant something, it had to.

“I have to go.”

“Okay. Enjoy the Under The Sea dance or whatever,” he said, waving his fingers in the air. “Say hi to Marty McFly for me.”

“Yeah. For the last time, I’m not fucking going, Logan. Stop drinking. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She hung up but he kept the phone at his ear. Twilight went from orange to violet and settled into a tranquil blue. Birds in the sky, wind in the trees. Everything was right in the world. Everything was as it should be. He poured some scotch on the ground with a high keen of a laugh, for his mother, for himself, then brought the bottle to his puckered lips, wiggling his toes, dry-eyed, burning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @ghostcat3000


End file.
